by Diana Quincy
“Can we jump up and down on them?” This from the little girl who’d wanted to demonstrate her tumbling expertise. Or at least Sunny thought it was she.
“You most certainly may not.” The shrew’s voice was firm. “Go now. I shall follow shortly.” She rose and addressed Dowding. “Please place all three of us in one chamber together.” She spoke to the butler as though she were the lady of the house and not an interloping upper servant whose tenure here would be short-lived.
“Very good, Miss Finch.” To Sunny’s surprise, Dowding responded in a respectful tone. “I shall see to it.”
He frowned, wondering what had come over his exacting butler. The man ushered the children out with an animated Pan bounding alongside them on his short, little legs. Dowding left the door ajar, and it took Sunny a moment to remember why. He so rarely entertained respectable women that the necessity of leaving a door open to protect a female’s reputation hadn’t immediately occurred to him. His attention returned to the governess, who stood tall, stiff, and unyielding, her delicate hands interlocked demurely before her.
He clasped his own hands behind his back, forcing a patience he did not feel. “What can I do for you, Miss Finch?”
Her gaze met his, and he realized her eyes were not as lackluster as the rest of her. They were a pale blue lit with fierce intelligence. Something in him became more alert to her; this was not a woman to be trifled with.
“The children are exhausted,” she said. “They’ve been traveling for six days.”
“And?” He regarded her expectantly. “Pray make your point.”
He sensed she resisted the urge to roll those canny eyes. “That is the point, Your Grace.”
He blinked. “I don’t follow.”
She let out a long breath. “Surely, you don’t intend for the children to repeat the same arduous journey when we’ve only just arrived. They’re very fatigued.”
“Then a good night’s sleep will be just the thing,” he said briskly. “I suggest you join them.”
She would not be deterred. “Prudence tends to sicken when she’s ridden in the carriage for too long. And I believe she’s developing a fever. A trip back to Cornwall when we’ve only just arrived will be a trial for her.”
“Then how do you propose I return them? I’m certainly not going to keep the brats.”
“Your uncle was adamant about the children coming to live here.” The words were edged with controlled irritation. “I did my best to persuade him otherwise.”
“Did you?” That piqued his curiosity. Just how much did little Miss Prim know about his ignominious reputation? “And why is that?”
She flushed, pink staining the hard curves of cheeks. “A bachelor establishment is hardly an ideal situation for fatherless children.”
“On that we agree. Which is why I’m returning the whole lot of you to Abel’s without delay.” The sooner, the better, as far as he was concerned.
“What if Lord Abel refuses to take the children back?” She stepped closer, speaking urgently. “Children need stability, Your Grace. Their future situation must be firmly established before they are pulled back and forth in this manner.”
“I appreciate your concern, Finch, I really do.” He didn’t, of course. Not really. He didn’t know the first thing about children or their needs. However, nothing could compel him to keep them, not even for a few days. “But the children must be returned home posthaste, and I shall personally see to it first thing in the morning.”
Fury added some heat to that frosty gaze. “Your Grace—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Grace.” John the footman stood on the threshold. “But Mr. Dowding said that I’m to fetch Miss Finch immediately.”
Sunny welcomed the interruption. “What is it?”
“One of the girls has taken ill. She’s cast her accounts and has a fever.”
Chapter 2
Concern rippled through Isabel. “Poor dear, I’ll be there shortly.”
Prudence, a sensitive, quiet child, had been unwell all day. Outwardly, her sister seemed more adaptable, but Patience was prone to worrying. All of this upheaval wasn’t good for either child. Not only had they been uprooted from the only home they could remember, but now this degenerate proposed to immediately deliver them back, despite the length of the return journey to Cornwall.
To make matters worse, the duke was wasting his time. Abel wouldn’t take them back. He was fixed on this course although for the life of her she couldn’t comprehend why. The Duke of Sunderford was obviously an indolent libertine whose household was no place for impressionable young children.
“As the footman has said”—she returned her attention to His Grace, who was so tall that she had to crane her neck to look up to him—“the child is ill and fatigued. We cannot move her.”
His bloodshot eyes clouded, but the bleariness did little to distract from the duke’s extraordinary silvery gaze, which seemed lit by the sun itself. “She could very well be fine by morning,” he insisted.
“She could also be feeling much more poorly.” Despite his obvious idiocy, the duke presented a striking visage. With his aristocratic features, he had the looks of a handsome prince, albeit one who had fallen from grace. His Grace’s eyes were puffy and it was evident a life of obvious dissipation had begun to take its toll, dulling the defined angles that make a man truly beautiful.
“Prudence must rest for several days before we can even think to move her,” she insisted.
“Several days?” he burst out. “That’s impossible.”
Her nostrils flared. “As the children’s governess, I am charged with their health and well-being.” She spoke in a tone that brooked no opposition. “And I cannot in good conscience allow you to move her.”
“Good God, woman.” He stared at her, his exasperation plain. “How dare you take that tone with me? You are a governess, and I am a duke.”
She felt her cheeks flush. “I am well aware of my position,” she said tightly. “And of yours.”
“Are you?” His expressive brows rose. They were darker than his disheveled cinnamon-colored mane. “Given the manner in which you address me, one would think the opposite is true.”
She bit back a sharp retort and forced herself to remember her place. If he tossed her out on her ear, the girls would be utterly alone and at this scapegrace’s mercy. Isabel knew better than most what it was to be orphaned. As a young girl, she’d lost her own parents in a boating accident.
She’d never forget how angry she’d been with Mama and Papa for their abandonment. The all-consuming fear of being alone in the world had overwhelmed her, and it was a long time before Isabel had felt safe again. A sense of longing for what she’d lost never truly left her. Patience and Prudence had been babies when their parents had vanished from their lives, but they were old enough now to fully understand loss and insecurity.
She softened her tone despite the disgust swirling in her chest. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It is just that I care very deeply for the children and only want what is in their best interests.”
Unlike the lummox standing before her, who clearly thought of nothing but himself and his own selfish needs. She might have been isolated in Cornwall these past few years, but Abel still received the newspapers, even if they arrived weeks late and out of date. The gossip pages were full of the randy exploits of Sinful Sunny. Frustration roiled her insides. How Abel could possibly believe this accommodation was best for the girls was beyond her.
“I’ll send for my doctor and see what he says,” Sunderford said.
“As you like.” She bustled toward the door, hurrying to be with the sick child lying above stairs. Apprehension of Prudie’s ill health gnawed at her stomach. The girl was most likely suffering a mild bout of carriage sickness, but Isabel couldn’t help anticipating the worst.
A footman l
ed her to the enormous chamber they’d been assigned, a surprisingly charming room with lightly painted walls, beamed ceilings, and generous windows. An ivory-colored hobbyhorse stood in one corner and a dark rocking chair in another. This had clearly been a children’s chamber at one time.
Two generously sized beds that could easily sleep four adults comfortably dominated the space. Prudence was alone on the far bed, looking particularly small and vulnerable bundled underneath white blankets stamped with a soft floral print. “I don’t feel good,” she sniffed when she spotted Isabel.
Isabel crossed over the patterned carpet that covered the wood plank floors and took a clearly miserable Prudie into her arms. “Does your stomach feel better?”
“A little,” she said in a small voice.
Isabel stroked the child’s head with a gentle touch. To her relief, Prudie was warm but she wasn’t burning with fever. At least not yet. If Selfish Sunny had his way, he’d dump them all in a one-way carriage to Cornwall, and Prudence’s condition could easily worsen. “You just need to rest and you’ll be feeling fine very soon.”
Prudie regarded her with pleading eyes. “I won’t have to go in the carriage again, will I? It makes me ill.”
“No, poppet.” She kissed the girl’s forehead and hugged her tight. “Put your mind at ease. I shall take care of everything.”
Prudie nodded contentedly and snuggled into her side. Isabel’s heart squeezed. These babies were so trusting, always taking her at her word, never doubting she’d take care of them. A fierce love for the children gripped her. She was all these orphaned girls had, and she would protect them with her life.
“Will you scratch my back, Izzy?”
“Of course.” A quick back rub was an infallible way to get Prudie to fall asleep. Unlike Patience, who didn’t care for back scratches or rubs because she was ticklish. Prudie flipped onto her stomach so Isabel could lightly graze the girl’s warm back with her fingertips.
Isabel looked around the massive chamber. “Where is your sister?”
Prudie yawned. “The footman was taking Pan for a walk, and she wanted to go with him.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor who proceeded to thoroughly examine the girl while Isabel anxiously hovered nearby. Dr. Jarvis had a smooth, solemn face topped with thick chestnut curls and possessed a confident demeanor.
“Her fever isn’t too bad,” he pronounced. “The stomach upset seems to be a result of the long carriage ride. A day or two of rest and she’ll be right as rain.”
“But it could be the ague,” Isabel suggested.
“Anything is possible, of course,” he said agreeably. “But I doubt it’s that serious.”
“But it could be,” she insisted sweetly.
He gave her a quizzical look. “I suppose,” he allowed, and she knew he was being polite.
She desperately needed for the doctor to be on her—and the children’s—side. “You see we’ve just come from a six-day journey from Cornwall, and His Grace intends to send the children directly back there in the morning.”
“Another long journey so soon? In the child’s present condition?” He frowned and then his amiable gray gaze found Isabel’s. “On second thought, I do believe it could be a touch of the ague.” He smiled reassuringly. “Excuse me while I go and report my findings to His Grace.”
* * *
—
“Ague?” Sunny groaned. “Are you certain?”
“So it would appear,” Tom Jarvis said. “I recommend complete bed rest for at least a sennight.”
Suppressing a curse, Sunny dragged a heavy hand down his face. After being forced to send his opera singer and her friend home for the evening, he’d thought his mood couldn’t get any worse. Now, instead of being immersed in soft, warm feminine flesh, he was up to his ears in domestic drudgery.
Tom had appeared in Sunny’s study directly after examining Patience. Or Prudence. Sunny had already forgotten which enfant terrible had ruined his evening and was threatening to do the same with the rest of his week. “She could rest and recover in the carriage on her way to Cornwall.”
Tom frowned. “Cornwall?” He shook his head. “I am sorry, Your Grace. But it would be inadvisable to move the child. A long journey could worsen her condition.”
“Bugger that!” he burst out. “What am I going to do with those brats for an entire week?”
Tom’s mouth twitched. Like everyone in Mayfair, Sunny’s personal doctor was familiar with his reputation. Tom was young, just two years older than Sunny, and well formed. The man enjoyed enough success with women to sympathize with the duke’s plight.
The two men had practically grown up together, but a vast social chasm had divided them from the first. Since birth, Sunny had been destined to inherit an exalted title and fortune, while Tom, born on the wrong side of the blanket to an upstairs maid at Parkthorn Hall, the ducal seat, had risen above the circumstances of his birth to become the duke’s personal doctor.
Tom’s face assumed its usual grave demeanor. “The governess has everything well in hand and appears to be very devoted to her charges. When I left the sickroom, Miss Finch was directing the servants to change the linens and bring cool water.”
Sunny could well imagine the harpy issuing orders to his staff like Wellington on the battlefield. He sighed with resignation. “That’s it then. I can’t move the child.”
“I’m afraid not.”
But he could bloody well move himself. First thing in the morning, he’d ride out to Cornwall to see Uncle Abel. After they’d straightened out this mess, Sunny would return home, pack up the twins and their governess, and send them back to their guardian.
The opera singer’s lush breasts and come-hither smile flashed in his mind. He smiled to himself. Then he’d have his life back. At last.
* * *
—
Sunny strode toward the library, anxious to see his uncle. Abel had already been abed when Sunny arrived in Cornwall late the previous evening after several days on the road. He hadn’t wanted to disturb his ailing uncle at that late hour, but was now increasingly anxious to settle the guardianship issue once and for all.
He rapped on the closed library door. He’d hoped to see Abel at breakfast but his uncle had already taken his meal by the time Sunny made a late-morning appearance in the breakfast room.
“Enter.” His uncle’s voice sounded very far away.
Sunny pushed the door open to find a homey library heavily paneled in dark Dutch oak. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowed with books. Newspapers, journals, and more volumes also littered every available tabletop.
“Uncle?” he asked, looking around.
“Up here.”
He craned his neck upward, watching Uncle Abel climb down the rolling library ladder set against the book stacks. He had a couple of tomes tucked under one arm.
“Adam,” he said in his booming baritone. Sunny had yet to meet the man with a deeper voice than Uncle Abel’s. “What a treat. The servants told me this morning that you’d arrived.”
Sunny watched his uncle jump from the last rung of the ladder with a decided spring in his step. “You’re remarkably agile for a dying man.”
Abel tossed the books on the closest available tabletop. “Yes, well, we’re all dying, aren’t we?”
Sunny lowered his head. “What of this heart ailment of yours?”
“The heart is a fickle organ.” Abel rubbed his chest with immense hands. He was a sizable man, as tall as Sunny, with a long, craggy face and gray eyes several shades darker than Sunny’s brilliant Fairfax silver, as though a painter had stirred in soot to dull the gleaming eyes the Fairfaxes were known for. “The doc says it’s only a matter of time before mine gives out.”
He approached Sunny and wrapped him in a hearty hug. Unused to displays of emotion, Sunny stiffen
ed, his arms locked at his sides. His parents had not been warm people. The duke and duchess had valued duty and proper deportment above all else. They’d never expressed any affection for each other or their only child, and there’d certainly been no embracing of any sort. But Uncle Abel was completely different. He’d always been an uncomfortably demonstrative man.
Abel pulled back, his grip still clamped on Sunny’s forearms. “How was your journey?”
“Interminably long, and I’ve got a sore arse to prove it.” Only the spectacular views of the coastline had made the long and bumpy journey somewhat bearable.
Abel finally released him, to Sunny’s enormous relief. “Yes, but consider our fair weather.”
He edged away from his uncle, just in case another urge to be demonstrative struck the man. “I will admit Cornwall’s temperatures are rather pleasant.” He had noticed the sun seemed to shine far more brilliantly over the southwestern tip of the country than it ever did in the metropolis.
“I’m pleased I finally tempted you to visit.”
He studied his uncle. The jaunty man before him was far from the sickly invalid he’d expected to find. “Was that the point of this farce?”
“Farce?” Abel moved to the chestnut sideboard to pour drinks. “Brandy?”
“Please.” He settled himself on the blue leather sofa. “I can’t keep them, you know. I cannot even begin to fathom why you would send innocent children into my care.”
“It is your duty to see to their welfare.” Abel came over and held out a glass. “They are your blood after all.”
He accepted the offering. “They are?”
“Isabel didn’t tell you about their parents?”
“No.” He took a deep drink from his brandy. He had a feeling he was going to need the fortification. “She neglected to mention it.”
